


Saturday Night’s Alright For Dancing

by McBangle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballroom AU, Ballroom Dancing, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Minor Adam "Holster" Birkholtz/Justin "Ransom" Oluransi, Minor Alexei "Tater" Mashkov/Kent "Parse" Parson, Misunderstandings, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McBangle/pseuds/McBangle
Summary: Jack Zimmermann was a photographer for the Daily. Samwell University's ballroom dancing club - the Dancing Wellies - had been heating up the Massachusetts amateur ballroom dance competition circuit thanks to Eric Bittle's and Alexei "Tater" Mashkov's dance partnership. Jack would have to get some newsworthy photos of Bittle if he wanted to keep himself assigned to cover the Dancing Wellies.





	1. Meet the Dancing Wellies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ereshai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/gifts).



> Inspired by [this prompt](http://writemesomewords.tumblr.com/post/146403072563/im-covering-the-ballroom-dance-competition-for): I’m covering the ballroom dance competition for the newspaper and wow, you are GOOD.  
> Many thanks to Sellah_Dor for beta reading this!

Jack Zimmermann adjusted his camera strap and inspected the lens for smudges for the third time that evening. He may not have asked for this assignment, but he would make damn sure the photos met his standards of technical perfection. If he wanted to land a photography internship with the New York Times, then he couldn’t afford to approach any assignment with anything less than the utmost professionalism and precision, no matter how inconsequential the subject.

Even a ballroom dancing club.

A _ballroom dancing_ club!

Apparently Samwell’s ballroom dancing club – The Dancing Wellies – was heating up the Massachusetts amateur ballroom dance competition circuit. Who knew there was a ballroom dance competition circuit? Who knew Samwell even had a ballroom dancing club? From what his editor had told him, the Dancing Wellies had been established a few decades earlier as a recreational club, but they’d come from seemingly nowhere this year to bring home trophies from various local and regional competitions. Apparently they’d made a big splash on the scene.

Jack could hardly imagine what would constitute making a splash on the ballroom dancing scene. Wearing the wrong color pocket square? Making a particularly fancy flourish with one’s hand? Dancing to music from the 1980s instead of the 1940s? He pictured a crowd of rich white men in tuxedos and monocles golf clapping over something interminably dull.

He’d completed boring assignments before and he could do it again. He’d sat with his friend Shitty for nearly thirty-six hours during a sit-in protesting the treatment of adjunct faculty, to capture on film the exact moment the Dean of Students had burst into tears of frustration. It had made the front page of the Daily, and had a featured place in Jack’s portfolio. No matter how tedious this rehearsal was, at some point he would find his perfect shot that would make this worth it as well.

Six fifty-seven. All right. Time to stop procrastinating and head on into the rehearsal. Jack took a deep breath before entering the student center.

A short Asian woman holding a clipboard stopped him at the door to the meeting room. “Photography club is down the hall.”

“No, I…” Jack started to gesture with his DSLR, then thought the better of it. “I’m with the Daily.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “The Samwell Daily.”

“I’m familiar with it,” she allowed. “What are you doing here?”

“The editor wanted a picture of the club for the sports pages.” His interrogator pulled a face at this. “It’s a puff piece, trying to mix things up from the usual football and hockey highlights,” he explained.

“So they sent you to a rehearsal instead of this weekend’s competition? Or the Greater Boston Pro-Am next month?” Jack opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off with a hand in the air. “Whatever. You can sit on the sidelines so long as you don’t bother any of my dancers. No interviews. Take your pictures and go.”

Jack felt a bloom of heat rush to his face as he surveyed the room for a good location. All of the chairs had been folded and lined up along the periphery of the room to clear the floor space. The lighting wasn’t great – the usual institutional overhead fluorescents - but his best bet was to set up in the southeast corner of the room next to the windows.

As he entered the room, the shorter woman stopped him again with a hand on his forearm, her voice gentler this time. “Word of advice. You’ll want pictures of Eric Bittle.” She pointed in the direction of two men talking animatedly while stretching – a short and slim blond and a beefy brown haired man who towered nearly a foot over the blond.

“Which one?” he asked, gesturing between the two of them.

She laughed fondly. “Tater is great, don’t get me wrong, but… you’ll know which one I mean.”

She wasn’t wrong.

The tall man – “Tater”, apparently – and the smaller blond man – Eric Bittle – were dance partners. A quick internet search on his phone told him that they weren’t the only same-sex ballroom dance partners, but that it still was rare on the collegiate circuit. As soon as they started dancing, it was clear that they had true talent. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off of them – or more accurately, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Bittle.

They both moved skillfully, perfectly in synch, never breaking their smiles. Their chemistry was palpable. Tater was the powerhouse of the two, lifting and spinning Bittle, yet he seemed to serve primarily to showcase Bittle – and if he was dissatisfied with that role, it didn’t show.

Bittle was the real star, graceful and talented. He was electric, his smile lighting up the whole room. And the way he moved his hips during the fast dances should be illegal.

About forty-five minutes into the rehearsal, they started a routine to music that reminded him of World War II documentaries. Although the dance floor was full, it was impossible not to notice Tater and Bittle, their feet moving faster than he would have thought possible. Midway through the song, as the trumpets blared, Tater lifted Bittle, swung him around his shoulders and then flung him to an astounding height as Bittle executed a three hundred sixty degree spin. Bittle landed without missing a step, face incandescent, and Jack had his shot.

* * *

 “Bro. You’re the best.” Adam smiled at his boyfriend.

“No, _you_ are,” Justin nudged him playfully.

“No way, bro. You won that waffle eating contest fair-and-square. I hereby declare you the Waffle King.” Adam executed a mock bow.

“What’s my prize?” Justin leaned forward, eyes half-lidded.

They both startled at the sound of the Jack clearing his throat.

“I… uh… got the shot.”

“Hm?” Adam sat upright and tidied his desk, putting on his best attempt at an air of professionalism despite being caught canoodling with his boyfriend in the student newspaper office.

Jack handed him a glossy 8 x 10 color photo of a young man beaming in mid-air, his arms arching gracefully while a larger man stood beneath him. Adam assessed the photo, then nodded appreciatively. “Nooooiice!” He held a hand up to Justin and was rewarded with a high five without even looking, then held up his fist for Jack. Jack looked at him quizzically and left him hanging. G-d, he was lame. “That’s front page of the sports section material, bro. Nicely done.”

Jack ducked his head. “I’d like to check out a couple of their competitions. I was thinking we could make a series out of it.”

Adam wrinkled his nose. “I reeeeeeally only wanted the one photo. Local color, you know? Highlighting a different sport from the uzh’. I don’t see much ongoing interest in ballroom dancing.”

“No, I think there might be something there,” Jack argued. “They’re on a winning streak. Besides, the Bittle-Tater pairing could hold some interest at Samwell.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced about the room wildly. “You, uh, didn’t tell me about Bittle and Tater.”

Adam scoffed. “Dude. They’re, like, the only reason I even gave you this assignment. They’re the only reason anyone knows the Dancing Wellies even exist. I didn’t think I _had_ to tell you about them. _Everybody_ ’s been talking about them.”

“Bro,” Justin reasoned. “You can’t just assume Jack knows this kind of stuff. You know Jack. He lives under a rock.”

“Rock lord,” Adam laughed.

“Are they…?” Jack asked.

“Hm?” Adam raised an eyebrow.

“Um…”

“What?” Adam was genuinely confused.

“…Partners?” Jack finally finished his thought.

Adam looked at Justin and then back at Jack. “Bittle and Tater?” Jack nodded. How this guy didn’t know the most obvious things was beyond Adam. “Uh, yeah, Jack. They’re partners.”

Jack straightened up and set his hands on the far edge of Adam’s desk. “Right. So. I’m going to go to their competition this weekend and take some pictures. If you don’t like them, you don’t have to run them. But I have a hunch that I’ll get some more newsworthy shots.”

Adam rolled his eyes and slouched back in his chair, leaning his head against the headrest and gazing up at the tiled ceiling. “Whatever, dude.”

“Um…” Justin looked back and forth from Adam to Jack’s rapidly retreating form. “You probably should have clarified that they’re just _dance_ partners.”

“I said that.” Adam wrinkled his brow.

“No, dude. You didn’t. You made it sound like Bittle and Tater are _together_.”

“Chyeah.” Adam shrugged, throwing one arm up in the air. “They’re dance partners, they dance together.”

“No, dumbass. He wanted to know if they’re dating.”

“What?” Adam sat bolt upright and turned to Justin. “Jack? No. Jack is _boringly_ straight.”


	2. The Greater Boston Pro-Am Ballroom Dancing Championships

_Of course_ Eric had noticed the blue-eyed photographer who’d been standing on the sidelines of their last few competitions. How could he not? The man was _striking_.

The first time that he’d so rudely walked uninvited into one of their rehearsals just days before the Massachusetts Collegiate Classic, Eric had been ready to give the intruder a piece of his mind. How dare he come in and distract the club when they needed to focus on the upcoming competition? But, he’d disappeared before the rehearsal had ended. All Larissa could tell Eric was that he had been a photographer on assignment for the Daily.

Eric had been surprised to notice him in the audience at the Classic that weekend. And slipping quietly into their next rehearsal. And again at the Dancing Under the Stars charity event. In fact, he’d become such a regular at their rehearsals and competitions that Eric’s feelings about his presence had changed altogether. After all, he was practically the Dancing Wellies’ biggest fan, and Eric couldn’t exactly hold that against him, could he? That would just be rude, and Eric could never be accused of being rude.

Eric was itching to speak with him, but he always seemed to melt into the crowd before the end of each competition.

“Erichnya, your friend here again.” Alexei elbowed Eric in his typical unsubtle manner.

“I have no idea who you’re referring to,” Eric replied airily.

Alexei guffawed.

“Ugh.” Eric jumped at the sound of Kent Parson groaning behind them. “That photographer is here again?” Parson rolled his eyes. “I mean, it’s cute how he’s following you around, but sooner or later he’s going to learn the difference between talent and a gimmick.”

“What do you know about talent, Parson?” Eric bit out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Enough to know that if you had any, you wouldn’t have to rely on the attention you get for your little male-male pairing.” Parson gestured disdainfully between Eric and Alexei.

Alexei placed a restraining hand on Eric’s shoulder, gentle but firm enough to keep Eric from lunging at Parson.

Parson rolled his eyes again. “You know you’re not the only out dancers. _Some_ of us just prefer to dance the _traditional_ way,” he smirked.

“And that why you lose,” Alexei quipped.

Parson clucked his tongue. “See you in the next round… _if_ you’re lucky.” He slunk away to his dance partner, Tatiana.

Eric had no idea why a sweet girl like Tatiana would partner with a rat like Kent Parson. Sure, he was talented, but he was an absolute misery to be around. “Well, bless his heart,” he muttered.

“Mmm, yes, I’m liking him too,” Alexei rumbled.

Eric did a double-take. Alexei was gazing hungrily after Kent Parson, that… that… “Alyosha, no!”

“What?” Alexei turned to Eric. “I’m liking him. He’s feisty.”

Eric gaped at Alexei. “He told us we should dance with women.”

Alexei shook his head, smiling fondly at Eric. “No. He come over here just to chirp us and tell me we not the only out dancers. I’m thinking he likes me.”

Eric looked skeptically up at his friend. “ _I’m_ thinking he’s an a-”

“Uh-uh-uh, Erichnya, don’t be forgetting the children here,” Alexei chided him. “Now. When you go talk to your friend over there?” He placed his hands on Eric’s shoulders and pointed him back in the direction of the blue-eyed photographer.

* * *

Jack fiddled with the light meter yet again. The lighting and angles had been all wrong during the International Standard preliminary round. He probably hadn’t gotten a single acceptable shot. Adam hadn’t been impressed by the photos he’d brought him since the first mid-air image, and was uninterested in permanently assigning Jack to cover the Dancing Wellies. If he wanted to keep himself from being reassigned, then he was going to need to bring back an award-winning shot from the Pro-Am.

A middle aged woman shot him a dirty look, but he ignored it. He was aware that someone else had probably sat in his seat during the earlier round, but he’d taken pains to find one without a bag, jacket or program marking the seat as being held. If you were foolish enough to leave a prime seat like this one unattended during a break, then you ought to be prepared to lose it.

He needed this seat to get a good photo of Eric Bittle. That was, a photo of Eric Bittle and Alexei “Tater” Mashkov. His interest in Bittle was purely professional. Obviously. He needed a good shot, and Bittle was the most likely member of the Dancing Wellies to create a newsworthy moment.

Jack wouldn’t say he had a crush on Bittle; he refused to allow himself to have crushes on people who were already in relationships. And Bittle and Tater _must_ have been together. You couldn’t fake chemistry like that.

So, no, Jack didn’t have a crush. He was just… an admirer of talent and skill. That was all.

Jack glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps. His eyes widened as the object of his non-crush approached him, arm outstretched, clad in a gold sequined tunic with a plunging neckline and obscenely tight black pants.

It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t a crush. Jack just needed to remember that.

Bittle smiled widely. He had the most open and welcoming smile that Jack had ever seen. _Keep it under control_ , he reminded himself. _You’re only here to get a good photo. For the Daily and for your portfolio. That’s it_. Jack was dimly aware, over the rushing in his ears, that Bittle was speaking.

“…for the Daily?” Bittle finished who-knows-what sentence.

“Mm-hmm?” Jack replied noncommittally. He noticed too late that Bittle had had an arm out, apparently waiting for a hand shake. Bittle dropped his arm just as Jack’s arm shot out. Jack dropped his arm just as Bittle raised his again. Bittle laughed and ran a hand through his hair. Adorably.

_Merde!_

“The picture in the sports pages last month – that was yours, wasn’t it?” If Bittle had noticed how ridiculously awkward Jack was, he wasn’t showing any sign of it.

Jack nodded dumbly.

“I sent the link to my MooMaw. She said she cried!” Bittle’s eyes shined. “I _think_ they were happy tears. I wanted to thank you. And…” If Jack didn’t know better, he’d have sworn Bittle blushed. “…I’ve noticed you. At our competitions, I mean. I wanted to say hello. I’m honored that you – I mean the Daily – has taken an interest in the Dancing Wellies.”

Jack continued nodding throughout Bittle’s monologue. What was the right thing to say here? What did people say in this situation? There must be something he should say. If only he could put his finger on it. He glanced desperately about the room, in search of something, _anything_ to say.

“Did you know that your boyfriend is kissing your competition?” he blurted out. _What, really?_ Had Jack no sense of timing?

Bittle put his head in his hands. Oddly, he appeared more irritated than distressed. “It’s not Kent Parson, is it?”

“Uh… it’s a short – I mean shorter – not so short – a short-ish blonde man with hair that sticks up?” Jack offered.

Bittle scrubbed his hands across his face and puffed out a breath. “That’s him. And Alexei is _not_ my boyfriend. He’s my dance partner. My friend. With _terrible_ taste in men.” He looked back at Jack with impossibly huge brown eyes. “But _definitely_ not my boyfriend.”

Jack’s heart pounded in his chest. Bittle was definitely expecting him to say something now. What, what, what? He silently cursed himself then opened his mouth to say the only thing that came to mind.

“You should do well in the Latin round. Latin is your strength, particularly the jive. If you hit all your moves, you’ll at least place in the championship rounds.” Bittle beamed at this. That would have been a good time to stop speaking. Unfortunately, Jack did not stop there. “The judges won’t bring you back in the next round for International Standard, though. You flubbed your Foxtrot and your Waltz was sub-par. Your Quickstep was good and your Tango was flawless, but they won’t pull up your scores enough to make up for the Foxtrot and Waltz.”

_…What was that?!_

Bittle’s face went hard and he narrowed his eyes. “Well. I’d best round up my partner and prepare for the Latin round. I hope we’re not _sub-par_.” He spun on his heel and flounced away.

_What. Was that?_

* * *

Tater was leaning over Kent Parson when he found himself suddenly being wrenched away.

“Alyosha, stop fraternizing with the enemy,” Erichnya snapped. “We need to prepare for the Latin round.”

“Why you worry, Erichnya?” Tater asked. “Latin our strongest division. We practice many times. We ready.” He ruffled his dance partner’s hair.

“We’d better be ready,” Erichnya answered tightly. “I’ve just been informed we probably won’t make it to the next round for International Standard. Apparently we ‘flubbed’ our Foxtrot.”

Tater nodded sagely. “Yes, I miss a step and get out of synch with you in second verse. Remember? I almost step on foot trying to catch up. And our Waltz was–” he wobbled his hand in the air, “–eh.”

“You agree with him?” Erichnya exploded.

“Who?” Tater wondered if he’d missed something or misunderstood part of the conversation. He did that sometimes.

“The Daily’s new self-appointed dance critic,” Erichnya sniffed. “Apparently taking pictures of a handful of competitions suddenly qualifies you as an expert.”

The pieces came together. “Your talk with photographer not go so good?”

Erichnya shook his head as his shoulders slumped. “I don’t know what I was thinking going over there. I just talked on… and on… and on… and he just stood there. And when he finally did speak, it was only to criticize us.” He sighed. “I don’t know why I thought… He’s probably straight anyway. They always are.”

Tater squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. “We will show him. We dance perfect Latin routine tonight. Success is best revenge, no?” he winked.

* * *

 Jack had been right on both counts. He’d have preferred to be wrong on one of the counts.

The judges didn’t bring Bittle and Tater back for the next International Standard round. The dancer that he’d spied Tater making out with earlier in the evening did get called back along with his dance partner. Jack wasn’t sure whether Bittle had looked more put out over not being called back or over the other dancer being called in his place. Tater didn’t seem to mind, though.

They’d nailed the Latin preliminary round, however. And their Latin championship routine had been pristine. Jack wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, but he was pretty sure that Bittle had cast a defiant look his way while striking the final pose of their perfect Paso Doble.

Between the two Latin rounds and Tater hoisting their trophy over Bittle’s head, Jack was sure he had at least one publication-worthy photo. He had no reason to stick around. It was getting late and he had a good forty-five minute drive back to Samwell. He really ought to be on the road.

So he had no idea why, instead of walking to the car, his traitorous feet were taking him to someone who clearly had no interest in talking to him.

Bittle was standing with his back to Jack, speaking animatedly with two other Dancing Wellies, when Jack cleared his throat. Bittle’s face instantly transformed from aglow with excitement to an icy glare once he caught sight of Jack.

“Did you come back to insult me some more? What did I do wrong this time? Did you find a misstep in one of our Latin routines and come to taunt me for it? Well, unfortunately for you, the judges seemed to think we did just fine.” He lifted his chin obstinately.

Jack rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and stared at his toes. “No, nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong. _I_ was wrong.” He glanced up at Bittle’s wide brown eyes. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I hadn’t meant to… You did great. You and Tater were terrific. Best routines I’ve seen yet.”

Bittle’s mouth rounded into a tiny “oh.”

“So… good job.” Jack stuck out his hand.

Bittle looked cautiously from Jack’s hand to his face and back again, then gingerly shook his hand.

“Look at that,” Jack grinned.

“What?”

“We _can_ actually execute a handshake.”

It was nice to see Bittle smile in Jack’s direction for once.


	3. Pa’ Bailar

A part of Eric was surprised to see the Daily photographer already sitting in a folding chair when he walked into the next rehearsal, but another part had been expecting him. Either way, he wasn’t going to let him sneak out another time without speaking with him.

Eric approached him with a tentative smile. “It’s you!”

The photographer smiled. “It’s me all right.”

“I actually…” Eric scuffed a toe on the ground. “I’m embarrassed to say this, but I don’t know your name. I never quite got around to asking, the last time we spoke.”

The other man laughed. “Well, we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.” He smiled warmly. “I’m Jack Zimmermann.”

“Jack. Jack Zimmermann,” Eric repeated, committing it to memory. “And I’m Eric Bittle.”

“I know,” the photog– _Jack_ chuckled. “You’re kind-of a minor celebrity on the local ballroom dancing circuit.”

Eric blushed. “You’re too sweet. And I’m _not_. If I’ve won a few trophies, it’s only because I have such a talented partner.”

“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit,” Jack smiled. Again. Eric didn’t know Jack could smile this much. Or _talk_ this much. It was a revelation of sorts. “Where is your partner, anyway?”

Eric started, then glanced about the room. Alexei was late. He rolled his eyes. “Probably Skyping with Kent again.”

“The one with the…” Jack waved a hand wildly over his head.

“Yup,” Eric popped the “p”.

“How long have they…”

“Three days,” Eric sighed.

“Wow, that’s… is that OK?” Jack asked. “With you?”

Eric wrinkled his brow. “I’m not fond of Kent, but Alexei’s an adult and he can make his own choices. Kent seems to make him happy, and if he doesn’t…” A thought occurred to Eric. “I want Alexei to be happy, because he’s my _friend_ and my _dance partner_. But not my _partner_ -partner.”

“Right.” Jack nodded, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.

“Oh Lord, no,” Eric laughed, leaning forward himself. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“Right. Good.” Jack continued to nod.

“So… how about you?”

“Me?” Jack’s eyebrows shot up and a smile quirked up in the corner of his mouth.

“Your newspaper. The Daily. How’s your newspaper doing?”

“Still the number one non-tabloid officially sanctioned Samwell newspaper.”

“Mr. Zimmermann, are you chirping me?” Eric put his hands on his hips.

“Me?”

“Now, I just want to hear about your newspaper. Oh my goodness, it must be fascinating to work on a newspaper. And as a photographer! You must have gone to such interesting places and seen such interesting things!” Eric gasped. “Have you ever been in a life-or-death situation?”

Jack raised one eyebrow. “I did take some war photos at this year’s Humans vs. Zombies.”

Eric clutched one hand to his chest. “The sass on you! Lord! …But really,” he smiled. “I’m just so pleased that the Daily assigned you cover the Dancing Wellies.”

Jack’s face fell.

“I didn’t expect you to return after the first rehearsal and I certainly never dreamed you’d come back after the Pro-Am. Will you make it an ongoing series?” Eric sighed in joy.

Jack cleared his throat.

“Gosh, that would be so nice,” Eric continued. “Hardly anyone ever recognizes dance as a sport. They think we’re just flouncing about for fun. As if anyone could just throw on a pair of dance shoes and perform a flawless Rumba. It takes work! I’m so glad that the Daily recognizes that.”

“Bittle–”

“Regular appearances in the sports pages will do wonders for our public perception.”

“Bittle!” Jack looked guilty. “I’m not here on assignment for the Daily. I did actually pitch an ongoing series, but my editor wasn’t interested.” He examined his fingers. “He doesn’t even plan to publish the photos from the Pro-Am, unless there’s a slow news week.”

“You’re… not here to take pictures?”

“I brought my camera,” Jack gestured to the camera in his lap. “I’m always looking for interesting shots. If I take any good ones, I’ll send them to you… for your Meemaw.”

“…MooMaw,” Eric quietly corrected him.

“But no, I’m not here on assignment for the Daily.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m here as a fan.”

“That’s…”

“Bitty!” Larissa shouted. “Rehearsal’s starting! We’re all waiting for you!”

“I…”

“You should…”

“Yeah.” Eric took a few steps in the direction of his dance partner (who’d apparently finally decided to grace him with his presence) before turning around to face Jack again. He took a deep breath. “Jack? Don’t hurry out after today’s rehearsal. I was hoping… maybe we could talk a lil’ more?” He clasped his hands behind his back.

Jack smiled brightly. “Absolutely.”

* * *

“Now, let’s see those pictures!” Bittle handed Jack a mug of Annie’s coffee and squeezed in next to him in the booth. “…Only if you want to show them to me,” he blushed.

Jack opened his camera bag and smiled. “Of course. Now, these aren’t my best, but I think they capture the mood…” he cautioned before switching to display mode and holding the DSLR out so they both could view the photos.

“Oh, my word!” Bittle gasped. “These are _stunning_!”

“That’s kind of you,” Jack protested, “but I wouldn’t use that word. Look.” He scrolled backwards through the photos to point out all of the glaring flaws. “This one is overexposed. And the angle is all wrong on this one. And I shot this one a fraction of a second too late. And _this_ one–”

“Oh hush.” Bittle placed a soft hand on Jack’s forearm. “They’re _stunning_ ,” he repeated emphatically. “Forget my MooMaw – no, _never_ forget my MooMaw – in _addition_ to my MooMaw, I want copies for the whole club! Look.” He scrolled through the photos and stopped at one of the club manager smirking fondly at someone just out of the shot. “You’ve _perfectly_ captured Larissa’s personality here. And here,” he scrolled to one of an Asian man dancing with a brunette woman, “Chris and Caitlin. They’re _so_ in love.” He smiled shyly at Jack before blushing again and turning back to the camera. “And in this one,” he pulled up a photo of Tater throwing his head back and laughing, “I can practically hear Alexei’s laughter!”

Jack’s heart was pounding so hard as Bittle chattered on, it was a wonder that Bittle couldn’t hear it. His arm was still warm from Bittle’s soft touch. At some point during the conversation, he realized that he and Bittle were holding hands. He had no idea who had initiated it, but it just felt right.

Bittle wrinkled his brow and rapidly scrolled through the photos again. “Where are the pictures from the Pro-Am?”

“Hmm?” Jack asked absentmindedly.

“The Pro-Am. The competition? Last weekend?”

“Oh!” Jack sat upright. “Oh, they’re not on my camera. I back up to my hard drive frequently. They’re already on my computer. But…” He drank down nearly the entire mug of now-lukewarm coffee in a single gulp, then looked back at Bittle again. “If you wanted, I could show you sometime. If you wanted.” He mentally kicked himself for the redundancy. Bittle probably thought he sounded like a fool. He would probably…

“I’d like that,” Bittle smiled up at him, something like hope in his unbelievably large brown eyes.

And before Jack knew what he was doing, his fingers were twined in Bittle’s hair and he was kissing him – softly, softly.

“Oh,” Bittle sighed, his eyes still closed when Jack pulled back.

“Was that okay?” Jack asked, his heart in his throat.

“Yes,” Bittle beamed. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was soooooo much fun to research and write!  
> Title is a reference to Elton John’s “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting”; Chapter 3’s title is an amazing tango by Bajofondo.


End file.
